Let Me Count the Ways
by The Integral of Awesome
Summary: Peter Hale has a proposition for Stiles. In other news, magic is afoot in Beacon Hills, but, really, when is it not? - Mild-AU. First chapter is during 1X12 "Codebreaker". Second chapter starts during 2X12 "Master Plan" and continues post-season 2.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: Pursuance of a minor. Peter/Stiles (one-sided). Unwelcoming personal-space invasion.**

Chapter 1

Stiles was terrified. Like, knee-knocking, shit-your-pants terrified. Peter _freaking_ Hale was prowling towards him, all feral and deadly and I'm-an-Alpha-werewolf-so-**beware**, and he was going to kill Stiles, slowly and painfully. He was going to rip Stiles' throat out _with his teeth_ and watch as Stiles choked on his own blood. He was going to-

Shove his tongue down Stiles' throat.

Stiles squawked around the mouth that was suddenly all up in his personal space, invading and demanding and _all consuming_. For a minute he just took it, in complete and total, somehow-I'm-not-dead-yet shock, but then he realized that _Peter Hale_ was raping his mouth with his _tongue_, and Stiles hands flew up to push and scratch at Peter so that he could escape whatever totally screwed up alternate reality he'd fallen into.

But Peter was bigger and stronger and an _alpha werewolf_, so he simply removed his hands from Stiles' face (and when had they even _gotten_ there?) and grabbed onto his wrists as if Stiles was a harmless kitten. The kiss was still happening for reasons that were unclear to Stiles, so he did the best thing he could think of and bit down viciously on the foreign tongue attempting to get acquainted with his tonsils. _That_ got Peter's attention, even though Stiles doubted it actually hurt him.

Peter sighed and extracted his limbs (and tongue) enough that he wasn't actually touching Stiles anymore, but he didn't step back, and Stiles was struck with the desire to throw himself across the room to get away, but Peter's claws and _fangs_ were still very close to Stiles' _neck_, so he refrained.

"What in the ever loving hell was that?" Stiles demanded, except he hadn't meant to say anything, but his mouth and his brain had a very poor relationship that included zero communication.

"That," Peter said, and he sounded so _disappointed_, like he'd actually expected Stiles to be completely fine with that little impromptu make-out session, to be _thrilled_ that Peter wanted to swap saliva with him, to want _more_, "was an offer." His breathing was actually labored, heavy. A werewolf who could run a marathon without batting an eye, and one kiss with Stiles has him fucking _panting_. Stiles was going to throw up.

"No. No _way_. This cannot even possibly be real life right now. You have got to be kidding me right now, you fang-bearing, serial-killing- You do realize I'm-" Stiles needed a plan. A plan. A plan. - He needed time. "What in hell's name would lead you to make that kind of offer to me?"

Peter's eyes closed, and he look _blissful_. About Stiles. Blissful about Stiles. "Let me count the ways," he murmured, and he was quoting poetry. Peter Hale was quoting poetry at Stiles, and Stiles would never be surprised by anything else, as long as he might live. "I suppose telling you your body drives me mad isn't quite the answer you're looking for here?"

Stiles had to swallow a squawk. "You're tongue kind of had that part covered."

Peter sighed again, and his hand lifted to Stiles' neck, almost like it was involuntary, stroking softly (no claws in sight _yet_). Stiles' skin was _crawling_, but he didn't move. "Your mind, then. You're still young and ignorant, this is true, but you understand _so much more_ than those other imbeciles, my nephew included-" and the thought of Derek had Stiles wishing _so hard_ that Derek would just jump out of the woodwork and bring this crazy sideshow to a halt, but he knew that wouldn't happen. Stiles was on his own "-but _you_. Just imagine it: With my knowledge and access, you're eye for research could finally be _utilized_. I could find you the right books, take you to the right places. It would be beautiful."

The way Peter's voice sounded, the _yearning_. It made Stiles terrified for a brief instant that an _issue_ would arise, one Stiles was not equipped to handle, but a glance downward showed him that Little Peter was behaving for now.

"And you're resourceful. What you've done with Scott- Can you imagine what he would have done without you? It really is _such a pity_ that I bit Scott instead of you that night. You would make such a good werewolf. I can see it in you. You'd take to it, the way you take to _everything_."

This line of conversation was veering into _sincerely screwed_ territory, so Stiles decided he needed to derail that train A.S.A.P. "Hey," he said, snapping his fingers, and Peter's eyes flew open, flashing red as they tracked the sharp movement of Stiles' hands and quickly flashed to Stiles' lips before settling on his eyes. "Stay on topic. You were talking about _why me_, not _what could be_. Focus."

Peter let a small smile play on his lips, a smile that would haunt Stiles' nightmares for _years_. "Focus. Coming from you, that is something." The smile grew. "Of course, that energy. It pulls you, and anyone lucky enough to be around you, in, wraps them up. It's perfect for a pack, really. Enchanting." Peter's eyes were hazy, like he was looking at something _just past_ Stiles. "And, of course, you're _loyalty_-"

And Peter cut himself off with a hiss, eyes slamming closed, because apparently talking about Stiles' _loyalty_ was just too damn much for him to handle without losing control. If that wasn't completely fucked up-

Peter's hands were on his waist now, clinging, and his claws were out, but they hadn't cut him yet. Stiles needed to diffuse the situation, like, _immediately._

"How about you remove your claws from my very tender-" probably a bad word-choice on Stiles' part if Peter's _groan_ was anything to go by "-human sides." It took him a moment, but Peter eventually did what he asked. "And, um, it might be easier for you, just a thought, if you take a few steps away? You know, if my proximity is making you go all haywire."

Peter breathed in through his nose, and Stiles' had the most unnerving feeling that Peter was scenting him. "You're right, of course, you wonderfully clever boy," Peter said, complying with Stiles' suggestion. It probably said something that Peter was calling him "boy" after just having confessed his deep lusting for Stiles. Creepy pedo-werewolf.

"And maybe now we should both just - leave. Get out of here and not speak of this ever again." Can't blame a guy for trying.

"Not quite that clever, Stiles."

Swallowing, Stiles pretended not to notice that Peter's eyes tracked the movement of his throat. "Look, I gave you what you wanted."

"Oh, Stiles." Suddenly Peter looked more dangerous than ever, and he was edging closer to Stiles again. "You have not even remotely given me what I want."

"Uh," was Stiles' oh-so-intelligent reply.

Peter's hand shot out, fast as lightening, and grabbed Stiles's wrist. When he spoke, his voice was fast and desperate. "Join me, Stiles. Join my pack, as my mate. I can give you everything you desire. Safety, for Scott, for your father? Done. You'll have access to all my resources, anything you want. You'll never feel unprepared again.

"Think of it, of you and me together. We would be _unstoppable_, Stiles. You could have the world at your fingertips. I know you've thought about it, about what it would be like to be stronger, faster, like Scott, and you would be _so much more_ than Scott." Peter's fervency was starting to cool a little, words slowing with his breathing, as he lifted Stiles' wrist to his lips and _inhaled_ like he was a drowning man receiving his first breath of fresh air. "Just one word, Stiles. One word, and it could all be yours."

Stiles looked at Peter, looked at his mouth, hovering just over Stiles' wrist, _waiting_. He meant to sound firm when he spoke, but he knew his nerves would undercut that. "No." Peter stiffened at that. "No," he managed, stronger that time. "My answer is no, Peter. I don't want the bite, I don't want your offer, and I don't want _you_." On his final words he snatched his wrist back, but he didn't move away yet. Once again, claws and fangs and _neck_.

Peter recovered eventually. "You're lying, Stiles. At the very least about the bite." He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "You're still young, you don't realize yet- Well, as you wish, I won't force something on you that you don't want, I've learned not to since Scott. I'll let you go, for now." Peter's eyes flashed. "But this isn't over, Stiles. Not even close."

And those final three words echoed in the air after Peter vanished, after Stiles' legs gave out from under him, after his heart finally started pumping at a normal pace. _Not even close_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings: Pursuance of a minor. Peter/Stiles (one-sided). Unwelcoming personal-space invasion.**

Chapter 2

So, Peter Hale was back from the dead. Stiles could handle this. Peter probably wasn't even thinking about him anymore, after everything that had happened with the whole _killing_ thing. Stiles could so handle this.

Then Peter looked up and locked eyes with Stiles, slick smile curling his lips, and Stiles could _so not_ handle this. Stiles had played a not very small part in lighting Peter Hale on fire. With a molotov cocktail. After Peter had already serial murdered a handful of people, mauled Stiles' date (and self-proclaimed life-long love), and forced his tongue into Stiles' mouth. This was insane and wrong on so many levels, Freud would have had a field day. This was the kind of shit ancient Grecians wrote tragedies about. Peter looked like he wanted to eat Stiles _alive_.

Stiles' fingers twitched, and he clutched them into fists to stop the movement, but Peter had already seen and was smirking at him, except it felt like Peter was smirking _through_ him. Peter's body was posed as relaxed, but Stiles saw the way he flexed his fingers, one at a time, eyes never leaving Stiles, and suddenly he felt plain _violated_. Stiles thought he saw Derek glance between the two of them, but he couldn't be sure.

Of course, as much as Peter Hale being alive (how did shit like that even _happen_?) was a really big deal, it wasn't actually the most pressing thing on Stiles' mind. He'd just run Jackson over with his car. He'd watched Lydia and her perfect strawberry blonde hair waltz in front of a lizard monster to defeat it with the power of _love_ (it sounded like a Disney movie or a plan Scott would come up with).

He'd seen Lydia weep over Jackson's dead body, and he'd seen the way those tears had changed from sorrow to joy when Jackson had suddenly surged back to life as an honest-to-God werewolf. A lot of things had fucking _happened_, so Peter Hale being alive? That shit storm would have to wait its turn.

And wait, it did. For approximately 28 hours. Then Stiles was blinking awake to Peter Hale _looming_ over his bed. Stiles didn't squeak because that would be un-manly, but there may have been some violent flinch-action going down. Peter just looked like the flinching turned him on or some nonsense.

"So, um, Peter. Fancy see you here. In my bedroom. At-" Stiles cast a furtive glance at his alarm clock "-3 o'clock in the mother-loving morning." Leaping to stand on the opposite side of the bed from Peter while trying not to look like he was aiming for the opposite side of the bed from Peter, Stiles crossed his arms over his chest and did his best impression of Derek's "what the fuck?" glare. He was pretty good at it. He'd been practicing in the mirror.

Peter smiled in that way he had (and, seriously, how, in the relatively short amount of time Stiles had known Peter Hale, had he became acquainted with Peter's large range of creepy smiles?) that just screamed _I see what you were trying to do there, and you weren't even half as subtle as you hoped_. "Ah, Stiles," he literally _sighed_. "I just wanted to see if you remembered that little conversation we had before I died."

Stiles swallowed, Peter tracking the movement. "Yeah, it's kind of hard to forget."

"Good." The "boy" was implied. "So, have you had a change of heart yet? I'm not in the same position I was before, but I still have quite a bit to offer you."

Stiles chose not to comment on Peter's use of the word "yet" because, even though Peter was no longer the Alpha, he had _claws_ and could rip Stiles' still beating heart out. "No, there have been no changes of heart happening here. None whatsoever. I am extremely hard-hearted, and, t'were-" he did _not_ just say "t'were" to Peter Hale "-I you, I would not expect any heart-changing to be occurring in this general vicinity."

Peter reached out a hand, and Stiles was terrified for a second that he was going to try to _touch_ him, but he aborted the motion at the last minute and shook his head sadly. "I wasn't gone for that long, I suppose, and we didn't part on the best terms." Peter sighed and slid toward the window, gliding like the ghost he should have been, but, before he made it all the way there, he changed his mind and was in front of Stiles in a flash, hot breath on his cheeks.

"Make no mistake, I do not intend to force this you on, but-" his eyes dropped to Stiles' lips, and he looked like he was a man dying of dehydration and Stiles was denying him a drink of water. He swooped down and placed a single kiss on Stiles' lips, infinitely more chaste than their first.

And then Peter Hale was gone, and Stiles was feeling like he needed _another_ shower. He'd already taken five.

* * *

That's how it went for _three months_, but Stiles didn't have much time to think about it with that treaty they were working out with the hunters and figuring out how, exactly, Scott and _Jackson Whittemore_ (Stiles' life, really) fit in with Derek's pack and a pack of freaking _Alpha werewolves_ roaming around town. Derek needed Peter's help because Peter, apparently, knew _everything_, but Derek also needed _Stiles'_ help because somewhere along the line it had become Stiles' job to liaison not only between the werewolves and the Argents, but also between Derek and Deaton, who was apparently, like, _super_ hardcore at all the supernatural shit (it was kind of awesome, and he may or may not have been giving Stiles lessons. What? He needed _some_ way to defend himself).

The main pointing being, Peter and Stiles had spent an uncomfortable amount of time together, and Peter was growing increasingly creepy about it, to the point where Derek didn't even try to hide the suspicious glances he cast between the two of them, but Stiles didn't bring it up because they had more important shit to focus on as long as they didn't want to die (or, in Peter's case, die _again_), and Derek didn't bring it up because, presumably, he was a dense idiot.

Peter dropped by Stiles' house every couple of weeks, though, always hovering over his bed in the middle of the night and asking if Stiles' had "had a change of heart yet". Stiles continued to say "no" and "fuck you", eventually escalating to, "I swear to God, Peter Hale, if you do not get out of my bedroom _this second_, I will call my dad in here and tell him _everything_ until he fills you with so many bullets that not even you can regenerate fast enough." The last one actually made Peter _laugh_, but it also served its purpose admirably because he was out the window by his next breath.

After all the business with the Alpha werewolves was finally settled and they had Erica and Boyd back safe and sound (Stiles didn't even want to _talk_ about it), everything calmed down a little. No one's life seemed to be in immediate danger, the Argents weren't actively trying to kill Beacon Hills' resident werewolves, and Scott and Allison were even getting cozy again (thank God, really, because Scott's sappy poetry about Allison was _even worse_ when they weren't together, and Stiles hadn't thought _that_ was possible).

They'd been crisis-free for almost a month, and Stiles was hoping that repeated rejection and the lack of peril would calm Peter's advances, but if anything Peter amped it up, visiting Stiles two weeks in a row. The second week Peter went so far as to back Stiles up against a wall and runs his hands (claws, terrifyingly enough, out) down Stiles' sides before taking his leave. Stiles was actually pretty shaken up by it and just wanted a little time away from crazy-person world, so of course who would show up in his room the very next night but Derek I'm-gloomy-and-I-know-it Hale.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Stiles sighed and scrubbed a hand over his head, pacing a little in front of his bed. "Look, Derek, whatever you're here to tell me is probably of the upmost importance, and I really would like to help you out, but I am literally one wrong word away from going bat-shit crazy on anyone I can reach with a baseball bat, so you should just leave and let me _sleep_ and then maybe tomorrow I can be of service to you."

"It smells like Peter in here."

Stiles didn't even know what to say to that, and even if he had, he really didn't want to touch _that_ issue with a 49 and a half foot pole.

Derek turned his eyes on Stiles, narrowing them and sniffing again. "Why does it smell like Peter in here?"

That sounded like an accusation. "Oh, hell no! You are not going to pin this on me. I am doing nothing wrong here. I am just minding my own damn business, and _your_ freaky uncle is breaking into my room _unwelcome_ on a bi-monthly, which apparently just turned into fucking weekly, basis, man. I'm not in cahoots with him, or whatever the hell you seem to think is going on here. You do realize that I _hate_ the guy, right?"

Derek growled at Stiles, low in his throat, and Stiles shut up immediately. "Stiles-" his voice was still angry, but it wasn't nearly as accusing "-_why does it smell like Peter in here_?"

Stiles huffed out a breath and sunk down into his computer chair. "Man, dude, you just italicized an _entire sentence_." Derek didn't look amused, so Stiles just continued. "Look, before you killed him, I was getting some creepy vibes from Peter. Not, like, psychotic, serial-killing, Alpha-werewolf type vibes. Well, those were there, too, but like, um, after school special kind of vibes."

"You can't mean-"

"Like Stranger Danger kind of vibes."

"Are you-"

"Like _bad touch_ kind of vibes, Derek. Serious, bad touch vibes. Actually bad touching kind of bad touch vibes." Stiles was distracted from continuing by Derek's fist _plunging through his wall_.

"Dude!" Stiles half-screeched and thanked his lucky stars that his dad was working the night shift because Deputy Monroe was on his honeymoon. "You do realize that this is my _room_, right? And that I have to explain things like a hole in my wall to my dad who is the Sheriff and doesn't buy my bullshit?"

Derek growled, eyes flashing, prowling towards Stiles, and for one terrifying moment, with the prowling and the _eyes_, he was reminded of that night with Peter, but Derek stopped before he was _completely_ in Stiles' space, and Stiles had a sneaking suspicion that it was actually for his benefit. "He. Did. _What_."

"Woah, that question wasn't even a question. Hell, it wasn't even a _sentence_. It was just, like, words, said in succession." Stiles might have been having a stroke. Hard to tell. "But, um, yeah, Peter might have made his, um, _interests_-" Derek growled low in his throat "-known to me. In a tongue-shoved-down-my-throat sort of way?"

His brain hadn't intended for that to be a question, but Derek's I-will-murder-something-soon-and-you-better-watch-out-because-right-now-you're-the-neartest-living-thing face was overwhelming his brain in a serious way. "Then he was all, 'We could be great together, Stiles. Join me.' and I was all, '_Hell_, no. You do realize you could be my father?' and he was all, 'You'll change your mind.'-" He should stop. He would stop, but suddenly it was all pouring out.

"-and I kind of thought it would be over when we killed him, but then he came back from the dead, and now he's dropping by my room in the middle of the night and just _leering_ at me like the huge creeper that he is, and did you _see_ what he did to Lydia? And Scott with the whole nonconsensual werewolf thing? Like, does he seriously think I'm going to say yes after all of that?"

Stiles shuddered. "I tell him no, like, every time he comes here, but he's a determined little bastard, I'll give him that, and he just keeps coming _back_, and Derek. Derek, it's like he can't control himself. He gets this look in his eye and- And last time his _claws_ were out, and he just, like, stroked my side or something." Stiles shuddered again.

Stiles couldn't even read Derek's face. It was quite probably furious, having moved on from I-will-murder-something-soon to I-will-murder-something-_now_, but it was also weirdly…gentle. And maybe conflicted. Or possibly hungry. It was hard to tell.

"You didn't say anything." It's not a question. In fact, it's more a growl than anything, but Stiles decides to answer it, regardless.

"Derek, you know I hate to say this more than anyone. Like, seriously, there is not another human being on this earth that wants to see Peter Hale rot in a shallow grave more than I do right now, but he's also been kind of useful to us. He knows shit; shit we can't just piece together on our own, and he's been surprisingly forthcoming with said shit. And even though I can't quite tell if he's trying to earn your trust or get into my pants, it's still helped us out. We might need his resources or his knowledge again later. And-"

Stiles locked eyes with Derek because Derek needed to hear this, needed to know that Stiles understood. "He's your only living relative, Derek."

It wasn't too long ago that Stiles wouldn't have cared at all that Derek would be killing his only family (_again_), but they'd formed a strange friendship over the last few months. Stiles had seen Derek's face when he realized the Alphas had Erica and Boyd, and it was the first time that he realized that Derek had real, bonafide _feelings_. Then Derek had come to Stiles and asked for _help_. It was _progress_, and Stiles made so many Pinocchio jokes that Derek was practically begging for the dog puns back.

Derek was still a huge pain in Stiles's ass, and he had to stop withholding information and biting random teenagers or the shit was seriously going to hit the fan, and it was true that their friendship was based largely on mutual life-saving, but it still counted.

Derek was making sad-eyes at Stiles, the kind that said "My entire family was burned to death in a fire and I blame myself" because Derek had a chip on his shoulder the size of the Grand Canyon, and, as much as Stiles pretended to hate Derek and got legitimately _frustrated_ with him, he understood that look. Been there, done there, bought the T-shirt. Only for him it had only been his mom, and it had been Derek's _everyone_.

Then, suddenly, Derek's face did what Stiles liked to call the Emergency Shutdown that he would pull when he thought he was sharing too much emotion. One second he was being all sensitive, and the next he'd hidden all his feelings behind a 10 foot thick cement wall. Cement, because bricks are for pussies.

"_Peter_-" the name sounded like disgust on Derek's tongue "-cannot be allowed to behave this way. It's _disgraceful_." Stiles wasn't sure whether he should be insulted or not (like wanting him was _so_ socially inexcusable), but then he remembered that Peter was, like, an old man with some serious serial-killer type tendencies who had recently been revived from a death Stiles had helped him towards and figured that he could let this one pass.

And then Derek was gone, in the usual way that Derek got gone, and Stiles was alone. Blessedly alone. And no longer entirely sure he wanted to be so blessedly alone.

Which was how Stiles ended up at Scott's house at the ungodly hour of nine o' clock on a Saturday morning, demanding video games and pizza and "normal teenage fun." He didn't want to think about Peter periodically breaking into his room to proposition him. He didn't want to think about Derek appearing and disappearing at random intervals, jumping from Derek Hale, actual person, to Derek Hale, Alpha werewolf, with such wild irregularity that Stiles had once suggested medication. He didn't even want to think about the new kid in school who he was pretty sure was actually a vampire.

And, luckily for Stiles, Scott was the perfect person to go to when he didn't want to think about anything, because Scott, bless his noble soul, typically didn't think about anything.

The day was blissful, as were the following _two weeks_, where nothing supernatural happened at all and Stiles saw neither hide nor hair of either Peter or Derek. It made Stiles feel unbelievably jumpy and on-edge. At least during their month of respite, there had at least been that one possibly-a-witch-and-also-possibly-still-just-a-hippy. Scott laughed and called him paranoid, which could very likely have been true if Beacon Hills wasn't trying to do a violent imitation of the Hellmouth. So naturally, on the third normal week, something finally happened.


End file.
